


this house could be our heaven

by bonnissance



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst and Feels, F/F, Grieving and Healing, canon remix, ghost character, haunted house au, i described it as 'ghost portrait au' when i was working on it so mainly go from there, mentions of character deaths, y'all i am struggling to tag this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnissance/pseuds/bonnissance
Summary: Serena stands on the footpath, looking at the empty family home she bought on a whim because the promise of peace and quiet and seclusion called to her. A flutter of something in the top floor window catches her eye.Probably just the curtain, she reasons, slotting her key into the lock. So what if the estate agent said it was haunted?She’s got enough ghosts of her own, one more won’t make a difference.
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50
Collections: Holby Halloween Monster Mash 2020





	this house could be our heaven

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, no characters die _IN_ the fic, but there are multiple conversations _about_ characters and how they died. There is angst and mental health stuff, but also healing. I guess it's one of those big feels tugging at the heart strings sort of deal, and shall update tags for CW as necessary
> 
> Many thanks to Jess for her help in building and betaing this fic <3 And a massive shout out to redvines for hosting the halloween monster mash! I'm so glad I managed to be involved this year, and I hope y'all enjoy!

Serena stands on the footpath, looking up at the dilapidated two story she now owns: the redbrown of the brickwork, the crawling ivy around the windows, the overgrown grass, and grey clouds rolling across the horizon. The empty family home she bought on a whim because the promise of peace and quiet and seclusion called to her. 

_Exile_ , she pretends she doesn’t think, shifting the suitcase in her hand as she focuses on all the things that are meant to be good for her. Besides, it’s not like anyone else wanted the place, standing vacant and forgotten for years on end. It’s the perfect place to retreat from the world, never to emerge again. 

She runs a hand over the unkempt hedgerow as she walks up the path, gate latched behind her as she makes her way up to the front door. A flutter of something in the top floor window catches her eye and she stops short. 

_Probably just the curtain_ , she reasons, unconsciously squaring her shoulders before slotting her key into the lock. So what if the estate agent said it was haunted? 

She’s got enough ghosts of her own, one more won’t make a difference. 

*

She doubts this is what her therapist meant when she suggested a long term project, but Serena won’t deny she feels better for having something to plan towards as she takes an inventory of everything in the house, all the leftover memories of who lived here, once upon a time. 

She never asked about details, only knows what the realtor thought to share. But she can tell a family lived here, can see the dints of childhood in every one of the downstairs rooms: the scuffing of floorboards from tiny, scampering shoes; the faintest trace of handprints along the wall, just below her hip height; years of growth marked against the door jamb of the kitchen. 

Sometimes she imagines a mop of unruly brown hair running carefree around the house, darting between rooms and doorways, laughter filling the hall in her wake. From time to time she sees a blonde giving chase, too, though she doesn’t know why it makes her heart ache in the best possible way. 

She’s so preoccupied with the past that it takes her a few days to notice: things moving here, missing there, and nothing of her own quite where she left it. 

And, sometimes, the sense of being watched. 

It frights her at first, to have a spectre hanging over her shoulder. Not because it’s watching her, but because of how it feels: gentle, curious, almost caring. 

It’s been so long since she’s felt anything like that and it terrifies the life out of her. 

*

The feeling goes away when the builders come; she almost misses it as they begin to strip the house bare.

She knows she could struggle along on her own for years to get the house up to code again. Appealing as backbreaking work sounds to her self flagellation, she knows it isn’t wise. Still, so many men in her space after so long alone puts her teeth on edge. The noise makes her skin crawl and the smell itches her sinuses.

It gets worse when they try to open up the farthest room at the back of the east wing. 

‘We could knock down the door,’ the site manager suggests. ‘We’ll have to replace some of the woodwork anyway, an extra door won’t make much difference.’ 

‘No,’ Serena replies before she’s thought it through. ‘No, leave it,’ she insists, more and more sure by the second. ‘I’ll handle it on my own, a personal project once everything is finished.’ 

Doesn’t mention the door is pristine, if dusty, unlike every other part of the rotting house. Doesn't mention her keys are meant to open up every part of the house, that the skeleton should have worked. 

That the room wasn’t even locked before today.

 _It’s not right_ , she realises that night, a week into the overhauling of the front entrance. Now she’s realised she can do it on her own, little by little, she knows that having all these people in the house isn’t right. 

So she lets the team finish the guttering and the roof, the load bearing walls and reinforcements to the floor while she works on the garden, then terminates their contract. Gives a generous tip, says the money ran out otherwise, that unforeseeable expenses came into play too early, and they part on good enough terms. 

Then, that night, in her own room on the second floor overlooking the front garden with things almost how she likes it, she feels watched again.

More potent, this time: a caress against her skin that tells her she isn’t alone till the hairs on the back of her neck stand tall and she pulls the covers up to her chin.

She’s working up the will to be scared, the way her rational mind knows she should, when she’s sure she hears someone whisper:

_Thank you._

*

She walks around the house differently, after that. Leaves all the things that moved before—the book she’s almost finished, her spare set of keys, the marked up map of the nearby village— out in the open. Keeps half an eye on them, to see if they’ll move again. 

Only none of them do. Her things stay where they are, yet she’s sure she isn’t alone. Can feel it in her bones.

So, she starts talking. 

It starts as musings, mostly, simply thinking to herself out loud. 

‘Where did I put them?’ She asks, patting herself down for keys; something draws her eyes to the coffee table. ‘Ah, gotcha!’

‘What’d I do with the…’ she trails off as she rummages deeper in the pantry for the jar of marmite before looking back at the first shelf, sees it right there, slightly to the left. ‘There you are,’ she says, rolls her eyes at her own folly. ‘Maybe I need my eyes checked?’ 

‘Oh, yes, that’s lovely,’ she says later that day, sweeping a hand down the plush curtains of the living room, the newly added crimson shining bright against the golden walls. ‘Definitely the right choice.’ 

A breeze jumps sparks in the fireplace, and she can’t help thinking the house agrees. 

‘Blue, maybe. Or perhaps purple?’ She ponders over the next week’s project, unsure what colour to paint the skirtingboard. ‘Any ideas?’ She asks to no one in particular, before deciding on green. ‘Thanks. I’m Serena, by the way,’ she adds absently. ‘Not sure if I mentioned that before.’

She only realises what she’s done hours later, tucked up in bed and about to sleep. And when she wakes, she can’t stop; starts muttering aloud about anything that comes to mind, till her throat no longer aches after prolonged use.

The presence grows stronger, more of a comfort with every passing day. She finds that having a someone—she’s sure it’s a person, even if it’s not human—without expectations is rather freeing. Healing, even. That she can speak about things in a way she never has before, not even to her therapist, with her sharp eyes and knowing smile. Can speak without expectations or explanations, without the toll of her responsibilities heavy on her shoulders, as if they’ve spread out across her back, the rest of her body, where she can hold them without falling under the pressure.

She opens herself up, more and more, as the weeks wear on. Musing of before, the regrets and triumphs of a life she left so far behind, drawing nearer and nearer to the reason she came to be here in the first place. Near, but never quite arriving. 

Then one evening, after too many hours spent stripping the floorboards in the back study long after she ought to have stopped, a book she can’t focus on in her lap as her mind refuses to stop churning despite the calming crackle of the fire and a mug of steaming tea beside her, it spills out of her: the one thing she never mentions.

The death of her daughter. 

‘There was an accident,’ she recounts for the first time since she told her therapist. ‘RTC. She hit her head against the steering wheel. She seemed fine at the scene so no one thought to check again.’ She clutches the mug closer to her chest, the warmth real and present against her palms. ‘She fainted, after she discharged herself. In the bathroom of all places.’ 

‘And no one came looking,’ she whispers, barely a croak, as her skin ripples static pain, more sorrow than her throat can contain burning at her eyes. 

‘She died, alone and abandoned in the middle of a _fucking_ hospital,’ she spits, bile rising in her throat, crawling its way up as a sickening, hollow laugh. Lets the pain wash through her, lets it leach out to leave her empty and alone. 

‘They just let her die,’ she whispers, grip on the mug finally relaxing, letting it slip from her fingers onto the safety of the coffee table. She slumps back against the couch, shoulders sagged and tears on her face. 

‘Serena, I’m so sorry,’ she’s sure she hears by her right ear. Dismisses it as a whisper of the wind, and pushes on; knows she can’t put herself back together again till the story ends. 

‘I didn’t know what to do with myself, who I was anymore. What do you even call a mother without a child? And I couldn’t stay, not knowing the system I’d devoted my _life_ to couldn’t be bothered to provide adequate care for my little girl.’

'So, I left. And then I found this place,’ she says, a tiny spark of hope lighting up her voice. ‘And I’m glad I did,’ she adds, the truth of it sitting in her bones.

‘So am I,’ she _knows_ she hears beside her.

She frowns, turning to the other cushion of the two person loveseat, to the empty space by her feet. 

And her eyes widen.

Because she’s _not_ alone. There’s a woman there, sitting right beside her—all long limbs and high cheekbones with dark eyes full of care and concern.

Serena’s mouth falls open and she stares as the concern turns to panic. Scurries to her feet, a few frantic steps away before freezing where she stands, adrift and terrified. 

‘Serena, you—you can hear me?’ the woman whispers as she stands, dark eyes boring into Serena’s soul and she nods. ‘You can _see_ me?’ she asks, drawing near the middle of the room till they’re standing toe to toe. ‘Can you…’ she trails off, fingers reaching out, across the foot of space between them, hand over a heart about to beat out its chest— 

And Serena faints, straight to the floor. 

*

The fire crackles softly as she comes to, disorientated on the living room floor with the woman kneeling beside her, hovering just out of reach. 

‘Oh, thank god,’ she says, as Serena slowly rises. She settles on her feet, their faces level, and Serena has to look away; the relief in those dark eyes too much to bear. 

She sinks, heavy, onto the couch. 

‘What are you doing in my house?’ She asks, though she suspects she already knows the answer. 

‘Because it’s my house, too.’

Serena stares. Blinks. Stares some more.

Then looks, _really_ looks at her, and something clicks—the painting in the hallway, the photographs that came with the house, remembrances of past lives she tucked away in the safety of the attic: this woman in her younger years, all the way back to her youth. 

‘Of course it is,’ she says with a sigh. Rubs her face in her hands, reaches for her mug. Makes it most of the way to her mouth before she realises it’s gone cold. She huffs softly, getting to her feet. ‘Right, first things first. Come on, you.’

Stony silence falls round their shoulders, as the woman follows along behind. 

‘Can I offer you anything?’ Serena asks eventually, when she’s finished pottering around the kitchen. It’s mainly out of politeness more than anything, before she considers: ‘ _Can_ I offer you anything?’ 

The woman shakes her head. ‘I can’t exactly drink. But,’ she adds, voice lighting with hope. ‘If you have any whisky? I miss the smell.’

Serena baulks. ‘Um, I don’t drink. Anymore,’ she adds, then clarifies, ‘At the moment.’

The blonde hums, quickly buries the disappointment behind that floppy fringe. 

‘But I could get some for you,’ she offers tentatively, ‘Next time I’m out?’ 

‘Not if having it in the house is going to be a problem. For you,’ she says tactfully, eyes conveying a world of meaning despite the emptiness behind them. 

Serena shakes her head. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s more, a precaution.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘I was never one for whiskey anyway, so I can’t see the harm.’

The woman’s smile is small and a little tight, but Serena can see the warmth behind it, in her face, brighter than it was a moment before. ‘I’d appreciate that.’ 

She nods, picks up her tea; stares at her feet as she walks back to the warmth of the fire, sure she’s being followed despite the lack of footsteps. 

‘Um, is there…well, is there anything else you’d like in the house? I can make a list,’ Serena offers once she’s settled again. ‘I assume you can’t leave of your own accord.’

She shakes her head, still standing. A frown forms on her brow. ‘So you know I’m…’

‘Dead?’ Serena supplies glibly. ‘Yes, I did assume.’ 

‘You’re taking this remarkably well,’ she replies, voice thick with disbelief as she looks at her curiously.

Serena shrugs. ‘I stopped caring about life, for a while. I guess that means I don’t care about a lack of it, either,’ she reasons, feeling the truth of it in her bones.

The woman nods once, curtly, then sits beside her, worlds of space between them. 

Serena contents herself with sipping her tea in silence, deliberately keeping her eyes on the sparks from the fireplace as her mind whirls. Then, a question occurs to her: 

‘Am I sleeping in your room?’

The woman nods slowly. 

‘Sorry,’ Serena replies, putting down her empty mug. ‘I’ll move.’ 

‘No, stay,’ she insists. Nibbles on her bottom lip, like she wants to add something, before shaking her head. ‘I don’t mind, I wasn’t using it anyway. But,’ she adds hopefully, ‘If you could stoke the fire before you go, and add some wood? I like watching it die down to embers.’

‘Of course,’ Serena says, only a little hesitantly.

The woman seems to notice, assures her, ‘I’ll come and get you if something goes wrong.’

Serena smiles despite herself, pleased to be understood without having to say a word. Stands and stokes the fire till the flames are healthy and bright, then retreats towards their room.

She pauses at the doorway. Turns, hand against the jamb, as she realises, ‘I don’t know your name.’

The woman turns, surprised, before her face lights up. ‘It’s Bernie. Bernie Wolfe.’

*

They settle into a rhythm quickly, the oddness of a vaguely corporeal housemate swiftly outweighed by the pleasure of Bernie’s company. Serena finds getting out of bed is easier, now, knowing someone is waiting for her. And she never has to clean up after them either; Serena always hated cleaning up after other people, especially the messes people didn’t even realise they were making.

It turns out Bernie is a dab hand at DIY advice, especially now Serena can leave her in front of YouTube for hours at a time while she does the physical labour. 

They move through the rooms, becoming closer as they share more of the lives they had before this house. She learns Bernie was a surgeon, too. One of the best, Serena suspects, from the way she talks about her time in the RAMC, the techniques she engineered, familiar strategies Serena herself used a lifetime ago. 

It’s bittersweet, to hear the longing in Bernie’s voice; the wistfulness for something she can no longer do, the very same thing Serena willingly left behind. 

She learns that Bernie was married, had a family. Something about her face when she says husband catches Serena’s eye but she never presses, leaves Bernie to open up in her own time.

It’s not like either of them are going anywhere, after all. They have all the time in the world.

Besides, she has more immediate questions burning brighter in her mind. Like why her, and why here? And why Serena, of all people. 

‘It’s probably rude to ask, but I’m going to anyway,’ she starts with a non sequitur one morning while making coffee. ‘How did you end up here?’

Bernie blinkes. ‘I died. I thought we covered that.’

Serena snorts, rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, obviously. I meant more, well, did you die here?’

Bernie shakes her head. ‘No, actually. I’m not sure where, exactly. It’s a bit…I just know I got blown up.’

Serena’s heart clenches. She sinks down, heavy, on the barstool. ‘What?’

‘A roadside IED, when I was stationed overseas.’ Bernie’s voice shifts, listing softer as she gets lost in hazy memories. ‘We were driving, then there was an explosion—the car must have rolled because I ended up in a field of poppies and…and Alex was with me.’

Serena can’t help wondering who Alex was, why Bernie says their name like that when she’s never mentioned them before, but leaves it be when she sees Bernie shakes herself back to the present.

‘I remember being strapped to a board, must have been airlifted to hospital.’

‘I was going to say, you don’t look blown to bits,’ Serena adds glibly, hoping to shift some tension churning in her gut.

Bernie snorts. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She frowns again, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘They rerouted me from Brize Norton to Holby City—I thought it was odd but it meant my family was close by so I didn’t mind. I remember two surgeons arguing before I talked them through the operation but…I never saw them again.’ Realisation dawns in her eyes. ‘I must have died on the table.’

The revelation gets lost as Serena ponders: ‘Holby?’

Bernie frowns, before nodding slowly.

‘Where I worked,’ Serena says, voice rough as her nose burns.

‘Where you—’ Bernie’s eyes widen, mouth almost falling open. ‘You mean, if I’d survived…we might have met?

Serena blinks back tears, heart clenching despite herself. Nods, her hand itching to reach out; keeps it to herself, can’t bear knowing it’ll pass right through. 

‘Do you think we’d have been friends?’ 

She could swear she sees tears in Bernie’s eyes, but she can’t be sure through the blurring of her own.

‘I know it.’

*

Bernie’s presence in the house becomes more palpable after that, whatever binds her to this place solidifying as the weeks turn to months. The pull between them tightens, too, as the weather warms; they overhaul the garden the way Bernie always dreamt of, and a time when they weren’t here, together, fades to a long forgotten memory.

Serena gets so used to Bernie being around the house that the first time she disappears is downright unsettling.

It’s innocuous, at first. Serena just assumes Bernie is in a different part of the house, or enjoying the newly planted flowerbeds. That they’re simply missing each other as they go about their day, like ships in the night.

But still, something _feels_ off. More so when she spends the evening in front of the fire, alone: flame light catching the tumbler of whisky just so, amber shining gold as the mug of tea goes cold against the palm of her hand.

She’s not sure which is worse—that she is actually alone or it only seems like it—and she frets herself to bed early. 

Only to find Bernie sitting by the windowsill, almost translucent in the low light, her gaze fixed on the darkness outside. 

Relief washes over Serena, so strong her knees almost buckle. She tries to keep her voice light as she asks, ‘Where have you been?’

Bernie turns, frowning slightly. 

‘You didn’t join me for tea.’ 

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise,’ Bernie apologises. ‘Must have lost track of time.’

Serena can’t help smiling, worry replaced by the sheer absurdity of a ghost beholden to time. She sits on the window seat, in the space by Bernie’s feet.

‘Penny for them?’

Bernie offers up a small smile but shakes her head. ‘No, no. I’m fine, really. I expect you’re tired, I’ll let you get on,’ she adds as she stands, making to leave.

‘You don’t have to go.’

Bernie stops short by the foot of the bed. 

‘I missed you today,’ Serena adds slowly, the truth of it burning at her eyes. ‘I, well, this is technically your room, too, isn’t it?’ She tilts her head to the side, eyes crinkling with a smile, and pats the window seat reassuringly. ‘You don’t have to go.’

Bernie’s face softens, lamplight catching the creases at the corner of her mouth.

‘Okay,’ she says, almost shyly as she ducks her head, eyes hidden behind her fringe. Sits with their knees nearly brushing, offers up a tiny smile, and resumes her gazing out into the night.

Serena’s shoulders relax, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Moves her knee a few millimeters closer, leaves them _this_ close to touching, and stares out the window, too. 

*

It happens again, once or twice, over the next week: Serena alone all day in a too large house with no sign of anyone else within their four walls. But Bernie never misses tea by the fire, and they start moving to the bedroom once the flames die down to embers. Serena begins to fall asleep with Bernie watching out the window, a calming presence that soothes even her dreams.

She can’t remember ever sleeping so well. 

Then one day Bernie is _everywhere_ she is; twitching and scatty on the other side of the room, eyes boring into the back of her head but darting away the second Serena turns around.

Serena stands it for as long as she can, the itching skin, the scattered thoughts. But come nightfall, with Bernie still jittering beside her, she’s had enough.

‘Oh, just spit it out would you,’ she says, a little harsher than she expects, too irritable to be patient.

Bernie’s head snaps towards her, wide eyed and playing innocent. ‘What?’

‘You’ve been flittering about for days, darling. Whatever it is you can just ask,’ she urges, only noticing the endearment after the fact; Bernie seems too distracted to notice at all.

‘Um, well, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,’ she starts, staring at the sparks of the firelight, the floor beneath her feet. ‘And you can say no, but…’

‘But?’ Serena urges after a few more moments. 

Finally, Bernie looks up, right into her eyes. ‘My children.’

Serena inhales, the sharp sting of grief swiftly ebbing into something a little less raw, a little more manageable. Doesn’t expect the bloom of gratitude mingled in too, now she knows why Bernie waited so long, twisting herself in knots.

She can’t help feeling cared for and a soft smile upturns the creases of her mouth.

‘Yes?’ She says softly, and sees the relief rush through Bernie’s body.

‘I want to know what they’re doing. How they are. If they’re still—well, you know.’ Her dark eyes shine with hope. ‘Can you look for them, please?’

Serena’s hand itches with the need to reach out. Stops herself just in time.

‘Of course I will,’ she says, her voice a little wet. ‘I’d be happy to.’

Which is how she ends up in bed with the laptop on her knees while Bernie stares out the window.

One day she’ll ask what she’s watching for, gazing out beyond their four walls, but for the moment she busies herself searching Facebook for different derivations of her dead friend’s estranged children. 

She thinks about having a glass of wine for the first time in months. Isn’t sure if it’s a good craving or not and files it away to wonder about tomorrow as she keeps searching. 

‘I think. I think I found one,’ she says some time later, a little trepidatiously. ‘It’s the right name, but not much family resemblance…’ She trails off, looking closer at the profile picture, notices the dark eyes as Bernie moves to the bed beside her. ‘Actually…’

‘It’s him,’ Bernie says, curling her toes up under her, voice dropping with bewilderment. ‘Serena, it’s him.’

Serena shifts over unconsciously to give Bernie more room. Almost passes her the entire laptop, before she relocates it onto the mattress between them, slowly scrolling through the public profile.

‘He’s got your wanderlust,’ Serena muses quietly, sitting back against the headboard as they scan image after image of foreign beaches and exotic wildlife and a beaming young man clearly trying to find his place in the world.

Bernie hums, nodding. Turns to her, eyes wide and shining. ‘He looks happy, doesn’t he?’

Serena smiles, heart warming her from the inside out. ‘Yes, Bernie, he does.’ 

*

Finding Charlotte is another matter entirely. Facebook is a bust, even after Cameron accepts Serena’s friend request. After the first, reasonably awkward explanation that Serena is an old friend of the family wondering what her now passed friend’s children are up to, he quickly clarifies she doesn’t have social media at all. That he’s happy to pass on Serena’s well wishes when they next speak, but the best he can offer is an official twitter account run by the roomful of interns at her publishing house.

She thanks him for all his help, extending an open invitation to visit if he’s ever in the country and needs somewhere to stay. It’s not like she hasn’t got the room, and for all it’s a slim chance that he’ll ever take her up on the offer, it’s still a chance for Bernie to see her son again.

Serena would never begrudge her that.

Bernie seems buoyed by the updates about her son, her good mood lighting up the house. But Serena can tell she still wonders about her daughter, wishes she knew how to help.

Then, during an otherwise uneventful trip to the village, the car filled to the brim with supplies, something in the bookshop window catches Serena’s eyes. 

The cover calls to her, the intricate vines twined around a lamp post piquing her interest. She takes a copy from the shelf, flips to the blurb on the back and sees the author photograph, and her hands begin to shake. 

She’d know that face anywhere. Better than her own, if she’s honest, after so many evenings spent gazing softly as they both sit by the fire. But it’s not her Bernie. 

It’s her daughter. 

Her heart hammers as she flips through the first few pages; pays for the novel with tear streaks on her cheeks. 

She races home, as fast as she can. Rushes into the house, shopping long forgotten. Runs straight to their bedroom, where she knows Bernie is waiting.

‘Bernie,’ she exclaims, drawing her attention from the window, sitting down beside her. ‘Bernie, look!’ 

She gestures to the cover, to the name on the front, the embossed golden letters. 

Bernie’s eyes widen, chin lifting as her mouth falls open. ‘Is that…’

‘Yes,’ Serena assures her, heart thrumming through her breastbone all the way up to her throat. ‘And here,’ she adds, flicking to the dedication. 

Her hands shake as she holds it open for Bernie to read:

_For my mother._

Tears burn at her eyes as she watches Bernie’s face lights up in wonderment, before reaching out. She inhales sharply, not even daring to blink as the book is eased out of her hands to be held tightly in Bernie’s own.

Serena’s hand flies to her mouth, covering a gasp as she stares, sure she can feel the echo of warm skin against her own.

*

It’s such a bliss-filled bubble they built for themselves, just the two of them in a house they both love; Serena should have known it could never last. 

It starts with a bad day, the worst she's had in quite a while. She felt it brewing over a few afternoons, hoped it’d get better on its own; knows swallowing it down now will only serve to make it worse. 

She flees the house, the sense of purpose that normally buoys her now a stifling reminder of endless days of work. Retreats to the garden, tracking through the mostly tamed hedges and flowerbeds and thickets, walks and walks and walks till she comes out the other side, lost in the countryside. 

She finds herself in a clearing, sinks to her knees beside an old oak tree, and lets herself sag, the truck thick and sturdy against her back. She sobs till her throat is raw, rips at the ground, digs a hole to capture her screams; lets it seep out of her till she feels settled in her skin again, open and raw and so ready for bed.

It’s dark by the time she makes it home, and Bernie is waiting for her, by the window. Like she’s been watching to see if she’ll return.

Serena shuts the door behind her, too exhausted to explain, barely able to drag herself up the stairs. Think it might not matter, that Bernie will be there in the morning, that she couldn’t scare her off if she tried. If it takes a while to explain herself then so be it. 

But Bernie follows her up the stairs, into the bedroom, slides in beside her without a word. Gathers her up in her arms, pulls her close—not solid and warm, but there all the same—like she understands. 

Like she _cares_. 

And Serena breaks; buries herself in Bernie’s barely there shoulder and lets herself shatter. The kind she hasn’t let herself in months, _years_ , since the accident first happened. The kind she knows she can’t put herself back together again afterwards, not on her own. 

Because now, she doesn’t have to. 

*

She’s in the garden when she hears the crunch of tyres up the driveway; takes the long way round the house to investigate.

There’s a stranger waiting for her when she gets to the front door. Says they’ve been scouting the area for real estate ventures, that this place caught their eye. Asks if she’d considered selling with a flourish of their business card. 

Serena twists the corner of the card as she watches them drive away again. She’s sure she can feel Bernie staring down from the bedroom window but when she turns there’s no one there.

She walks back into the house, alone, and doesn’t know what to do.

She hadn’t thought about what might come next, but she supposes she should. She never planned on staying, not really, and she can’t justify keeping the house on her own, the expense of the upkeep now they’ve finished everything except the locked room Serena hasn’t tried to open. 

But she doesn’t want to leave Bernie. Can’t imagine her life without her.

And it seems Bernie agrees, when she mentions it later that day: tea poured in front of a fire roaring. The first words out of her mouth a plea: 

‘You can’t leave.’ 

‘I don’t want to,’ Serena assures her. ‘I just, don’t know what’s next for me. There has to be something and if it’s not here, then…’

She shrugs, and the silence sits heavy on her shoulders.

Bernie stands abruptly; a cup falls to the floor. Serena frowns, staring as the spread of tea across the carpet, before Bernie’s voice draws her attention again. 

‘Come with me. Please?’

She frowns before nodding. She follows her through the house, stomach churning. Stops in the hallway to light a candle, then follows Bernie along the dark hallway. She likes the way Bernie looks in the flicker of firelight. Ethereal, rather than ghostly; almost solid, even, as they make their way towards the door she never opens. 

Serena twists the knob at Bernie’s behest; it shifts easily in her grip. 

Bernie steps into the darkness and the smell of dust and damp and mould fills her nose; she follows behind and the cobwebs begin to sway in the softest of breezes, the one almost following her, swirling strongest around her bare knees. 

Serena doesn’t know what’s to come, but can feel it’s important: the candle light in her hand, the gravity of it sinks into her bones as they walk to the far wall. Eventually, after an age, they come to a stop. Then, Serena notices the portrait.

Bernie’s portrait.

She looks at Bernie standing beside her. Expects her to look back, to smile, to reassure her like her presence always does. 

But Bernie stares at the portrait, her face pinched with worry, with concentration.

She waits, and waits, as Serena’s skin ripples and the room grows darker. Then finally, _finally_ , she speaks: 

‘Charlotte painted this, just before I was deployed. It was a school assignment, to paint something you love and she picked me. We spent _weeks_ working on it whenever she had time. I think that’s all she really wanted, some quality time before I had to go again.’

‘It’s why I’m here, I’m sure of it—a piece of me I left behind before I died.’ She reaches out, almost touching the canvas, a finger pointed as if to trace her own face. ‘But it never used to look like this.’

It takes Serena three tries to ask, ‘Like what?’

Bernie turns, a tiny smile curling the corner of her lips. ‘Happy.’

Serena heart hammers, her eyes prickling. Her mouth opens and nothing comes out.

‘It’s you, Serena,’ Bernie says, just audible above the wind. ‘It looks like this because of you.’

‘Bernie, I—’ she finally manages around the lump in her throat. ‘I don’t understand, what’s going on?’

‘I love you,’ Bernie says simply. ‘I understand everything now, and it only took dying to do it.’ She chuckles weakly. ‘I know what I have to do next,’ she adds, turning to Serena. ‘And I think you will too.’

Tears stream down Serena’s cheeks—she doesn’t understand but somehow _knows_ what’s coming—she opens her mouth, desperate and ready to beg—the certainty of what they have too much to bear losing despite the promise of _so_ much more—but she isn’t fast enough, her own hand reaching out as Bernie does the same, only away from her fingertips, towards the portrait, brushing against the canvas.

And then, she’s gone. 

‘Bernie!’ Serena screams, dropping the candle, snuffing it out. The full moon shines in from the crusted, tiny window high above, right on Bernie’s face, the loveliest she’s ever seen. Those eyes, the brightest darkest depths she long since fell into. The eyes of someone very much alive. And she knows, now, what Bernie meant. She understands, finally, exactly what she has to do. 

She steps forward, as close as she can, reaches up to press her palm against Bernie’s shoulder, the oil and gesso rough against her skin, rocks onto her tippy toes and presses her lips against Bernie’s.

They’re warm and soft against her own. 


End file.
